The wedding Night
1192 Words
The door didn’t knock. It shuddered.
Three bangs, hard enough to rattle the toothbrush in the glass.
My breath caught. I was already on the bathroom floor, back against the tub. Wedding dress in a heap by the sink. Cold tile biting through my slip.
He’d carried me over the threshold an hour ago. Dumped me on the bed like a suitcase. “Ten minutes,” he’d said, checking his watch. “Clean up.” Then he left.
I didn’t clean. I hid. Locked the door. Sat here counting the grout lines so I wouldn’t think about tonight. About him. About what happens when the foundation cracks.
Now he was back.
My heart wasn’t thudding. It was skipping. Missing beats. Making up for it with hard ones that hurt. How do I face him? Not like this. Not with four layers of Dior and a lie I’d sweated under for six hours.
If he touched my face. If he kissed me. If I cried.
It would smear. It would show. It would end me.
The banging stopped.
A key card beeped. The handle turned.
“Ariana.”
His voice came through the c***k before his body did. Flat. Impatient.
Then the door opened all the way.
Steam from his shower still hung in the air. He stood there in a towel. Low. White. Dangerous. Water tracking down his chest, down the lines of muscle my father called “Darian genetics.”
He saw me. On the floor. Fists clenched. Face untouched.
Full coverage. Film-grade. The lie he paid for.
His jaw ticked. He clicked his tongue.
“Let’s get the honeymoon started, baby.”
My eyes flew wide. I shoved past him and ran. Out of the bathroom. Into the bedroom. No lock there. Nowhere left.
The hotel suite was massive. Cold. All glass and marble. It made the distance between us feel smaller.
I heard him step out of the bathroom. Wet feet on tile. Then carpet. Slow. He wasn’t chasing. He didn’t have to.
“Ariana.”
My name in his mouth sounded wrong. Like he owned it.
I backed up until my calves hit the bed. The one he’d dropped me on an hour ago. The one with rose petals. Someone’s idea of romance.
“Don’t.” My voice cracked. Not strong. Not brave. Just scared.
He stopped at the foot of the bed. The towel still low on his hips. Water dripped from his hair to his collarbone. He didn’t wipe it.
He tilted his head. Studied me. Like I was a contract he hadn’t read yet.
“Don’t what?” he said. “Don’t look at my wife? Don’t touch my wife?”
Wife. The word hit like a slap.
My birthmark burned under the foundation. Four layers deep, but I could still feel it. Port-wine stain. The name didn’t make it hurt less.
“You don’t want me,” I said. It came out a whisper. “Not like this.”
He laughed. Short. No humor. “I married you, didn’t I?”
He stepped around the bed. I scrambled the other way. Kept the mattress between us. My bare feet slid on petals.
“Michael, please. I need time.”
“Time.” He repeated it like it was a foreign word. “We’ve had time. Two years since your father first offered you up. Four hours since you said I do.”
Offered. Like livestock.
My back hit the window. Floor-to-ceiling. Thirty stories up. No way out but through him.
He closed the distance in two steps. Braced one arm on the glass beside my head. Caged me in.
He smelled like soap and money.
“Look at me,” he said.
I couldn’t. If I looked, he’d see it. All of it. The anxiety. The fear. The girl he’d humiliated in his office.
His free hand came up. I flinched.
He stopped. Fingers hovering an inch from my jaw. From the birthmark.
“You’re shaking,” he said. Not kind. Observing. Like he was cataloging a defect.
I hated that he was right.
“Please,” I said again. I hated that word too. But deep down I craved his touches. My lips parted a little bit.
God, what’s wrong with me? Shame hit, hot and fast. I wanted him to stop. I wanted him not to. Both things lived in me and I hated both.
His eyes dropped to my lips. Then back up. The smirk was gone. Now he just looked… curious. Like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided if he wanted to solve or smash.
The towel shifted.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Open them.”
His voice was quiet now. That was worse.
I shook my head.
I heard him exhale. Then the pressure by my head lifted. His arm dropped.
When I opened my eyes, he’d stepped back.
He turned and walked to the closet. Yanked the door open. Pulled out a set of black silk pajamas. He dropped the towel and dressed with his back to me. No hurry. No modesty. Like I wasn’t there.
He grabbed the robe off the chair and tossed it at me. It landed at my feet.
“Get some sleep, Ariana.”
He didn’t call me baby girl that time. He didn’t look at me.
He walked to the couch. Lay down. Faced away. A deliberate snub.
The room went silent except for my heart. Still thudding. Still not believing it.
I slid down the window until I was sitting on the floor. Knees to my chest. Wedding gown still in the bathroom. Me in the slip I’d worn under it. Exposed.
What can I possibly say to him?
Nothing.
Tonight, saying nothing had saved me.
But morning would come.
He was asleep now. I could tell by his breathing. Even. Deep. The kind of sleep only people with clean consciences get.
While he slept, I sat there reflecting on what kind of man Michael Darian is.
Does he love this version of me? This well-made-up Ariana with the Dior and the lies? Or does he just want to consummate the wedding night, check a box, prove I’m his?
I married you, didn’t I? That wasn’t love. That was a receipt.
Avoiding him should be the best thing. Avoiding him would make it easier to hide my port-wine stained face. If he never gets close, he never sees. If he never touches, the mask never cracks.
Simple. Except for tomorrow morning.
A well-made foundation breaks in twelve hours. I’d put this one on at 2PM for photos. It was 11PM now.
Nine hours down. Three to go.
The thought of it made my body cringe. I could already feel the itch starting at my hairline. Where sweat wanted to break through and couldn’t. Where the birthmark burned, patient, under four layers of war paint.
Sleep would ruin it. Pillows would smear it. Tears would destroy it.
I couldn’t do any of those things. So I sat.
Back against glass. Eyes on the man who owned me on paper.
Wondering if he’d still own me when the mask came off.
- Writer
